


Wilbur Soot Centric Oneshots

by Serendipitous_Posts



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Child Neglect, Fever, Gen, Hurt Wilbur Soot, Jealousy, One Shot Collection, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Wilbur Soot, Sickfic, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, Wilbur Soot-centric, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipitous_Posts/pseuds/Serendipitous_Posts
Summary: A series of one shots about one Wilbur Soot.Requests welcome and necessary!
Comments: 75
Kudos: 246





	1. Chapter One

**Ground rules:**

  * **No requesting explicit sexual content**
  * **No ship fics for him and a minor**
  * **You can make requests on any page, don't worry**
  * **Any kink prompts is off the table you animals**
  * **Hurt/comfort is my favourite but I can also feed off angst**
  * **Character tags will be added as they are written into the story**
  * **If you want, you can specify if you want the fic to be an irl fic, dream smp fic, or another type of universe featuring Wilbur**




	2. Fever Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur has always hated falling sick. His family hates it more.
> 
> Goatly_Sacrifices: maybe the sleepy bois live together in essentially a youtube hype house and wilbur gets really sick, like running a high fever, felling really shitty sick. the rest of the sleepy bois have to take care of him, and maybe kristen is there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: Mild anxiety (medical kind) and mention of throwing up

The symptoms start easy then hit with the subtlety of a brick.

It’s easy, at first, to write the headache he has off as a by-product of staring at a screen too long. Easy to mistake his shaking hands as a result of bad anxiety. Sudden shivers to the windows Tommy keeps leaving open-

You get his point.

And maybe after a while things start to become slightly stretched, slightly convoluted, but experience has taught Wilbur not to go down that road, because the journey may be concern but the _destination_ is always a panic attack.

So when Phil asks “are you feeling okay, Will?” He knows it comes from a place of concern, but he would really rather if the other man not even dare voice that question anywhere in earshot of him.

And at the family dinner table too. Wonderful.

Tommy and Techno both stop eating, but Phil and Kristen never started, both staring at him with the same concerned look.

“I’m fine” he assured them.

“You sure?” Kristen pressed, brow furrowed “you’re looking a little flushed.”

He shrugged, and picked at his food like he was the teenager here and not Tommy. “I was sitting by the radiator earlier” he says, and doesn’t mention that it was to ward off the shivers that crept into his bones. He's always ran a little cold, that isn't too unusual.

“You actually gonna eat dinner then?” Techno asks pointedly, and Wilbur looks down at his barely touched plate. Something inside of him shudders at the thought of eating any more.

“I had a sandwich a little earlier” he shrugged.

Tommy not sensing-or perhaps sensing- the tension just laughed and moved Wilbur’s plate closer. “More for me then” he grinned.

“Oh you bitch-”

“Not like you wanted it.”

“Sharing is caring, Tommy-”

“Hey, I am a growing boy-”

“Did you just admit to being a child?”

A long second of silence, then frantic backtracking which had Wilbur laughing in delight.

“Stop laughing, I swear to God, I will stab you until you _die_!”

Yeah, everything was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

  
  


_God fucking damn it,_ is the only thing he can think in the morning.

At some point during the night, he had thrown his sheets straight off his bed. Normally, the cool air would have woken him up, shivering, but that didn’t happen last night because he was now laying in a pool of his own sweat.

He turned on his side, curling up into the foetus position as a shiver almost knocked the bones out of his body. His head did not appreciate the movement, sharp pain causing him to squeeze his eyes tight as everything tilted dizzily.

Christ, if turning made him feel as if he was going to vomit, he couldn’t even fathom what _standing up_ would do to him.

Except he had to get up. Because, being the brave soldier that he was, he risked a glance at his alarm clock (and was unbearably grateful for his past self for not setting it) and saw the bright, slightly painful, LED’s reading the time.

He’s streaming with Phil, Techno and Tommy later today. Beside his clock was his phone, and he gave it a desperate look.

_Cancel, cancel right now. Call them and tell them you are sick, that you are dying. Jesus christ, call 999, get an ambulance._

Wilbur doesn’t shake the thoughts away, because that would be painful, but he does frown at them. Because he’s not going to cancel on them, and he’s not going to **die**.

_You sure about that? What do you call it when your head hurts and breathing hurts and you’re boiling but you’re shivering and you’re dizzy and-_

**Probably**. He’s probably not going to die. He feels like shit, but he has some Tylenol he can use to feel . . . less like shit.

_The Tylenol that’s in your cupboards? Your_ _kitchen_ _cupboards? The one on the other side of the house? _

. . . . On second thought, maybe he could just lay down and Not Move for the rest of the day.

_Lay down and die you mean? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t get something. Tommy and Techno and Phil will come over just so they can walk in on your_ _corpse._

_God fucking dammit,_ he thought, for the second time, since waking up, and then throws himself onto his feet.

If it weren’t for the fact that his stomach was empty, he would have thrown up then and there.

Vertigo and dizziness strike an alliance that almost sends him toppling but he leans against the wall and waits for the vertigo to at least subside, before setting off again, using the wall as support.

The rooms of his house seem to almost move around him, ebbing and flowing in waves that made his head pound and forced him to almost fold in on himself to dull the churning in his stomach. There’s nobody out and about yet-too early, and he’s not sure whether or not he’s grateful for that.

He made it to the kitchen sink before he threw up, clinging to the cool metal sides to stay upright as his empty stomach attempted to empty itself even more. Nothing but bile that made his already wounded throat sting even more.

_So._ Definitely not eating today.

Tylenol and some water, then. He can (probably) manage that.

He has a lot of bottles of medication stored up, a mini pharmacy of sorts. Phil once joked that drinking cyanide would probably only give him a mild cold. It takes an embarrassingly long time to find the Tylenol though, mostly embarrassing because he was holding it for a good couple of minutes, but his brain didn’t really process that little fact.

The glasses are in the cupboard behind him, but something within him shudders at the idea of turning around. His stomach, probably. So instead he just cups his hands and uses that, trying not to gag at the awful taste of the tablets.

_There_. That’s . . . there. The medicine should help.

Hopefully.

_Unless it’s not the kind of illness that can be solved with some basic tablets and a handful of water. Unless it’s something serious, and you don’t know until it’s too late-_

_No. No, you’ll be fine. Besides, calling a hospital means calling the others and explaining to them why you aren’t in the house anymore._

Wilbur feels his cheeks flush an even darker red, this time not because of his fever. The embarrassment he feels the times he called a hospital only to discover it’s something minor is never really something that goes away.

Besides, he promised Tommy he’d stream with him today. By the time they got to that, his fever would have already broken.

He has half an hour though. He could sleep the rest of it off.

And so Will finds himself stumbling towards the couch, because the idea of walking back to the bedroom kind of makes him want to lay down and die. And nobody will be up for a good couple of hours, giving him plenty of time to sleep this thing off.

The couch isn’t exactly comfortable, especially since his limbs are too long to comfortably lay on it, but still, he can’t help but sigh at the feeling of cool leather underneath his cheek. 

* * *

There is an unspoken rule among their friend group; Tommy is never allowed to wake others up. Because it’s the closest way any of them will come to outright homicide.

Still, when Wilbur doesn’t respond the first two times Phil calls him, it seems only right to let Tommy have a go. 

Only for Tommy to come back with a baffled expression. “He’s not in there” he said, jerking a thumb towards the door.

“Oh God, did he fall asleep in the cupboard again?” Techno sighs, before throwing his head back and screaming “Wilbur Soot!” Over his shoulder;

Phil bites back a grin at the muffled crash and even more muffled “shit!” which comes from the other side of the house.

There is a brief second of silence, before Wilbur all but throws himself around the corner, and all amusement drains out of him in an instant.

“Sorry” says the walking corpse that is Phil’s friend, who has been apparently gargling gravel in his spare time. “Overslept.” 

“Oh my God” Techno breathes. “What happened to you?”

Wilbur just glared at him, bright eyes standing in stark contrast to the dark rings underneath them. His skin a pale yellow, save for the bright spots of red on his forehead and cheeks, the later of which look hollow. His hair, usually well cared for, was now plastered to his head.

He was leaning against the wall, and Phil was pretty sure if he wasn’t, he would no longer be standing.

“You look like shit” Tommy says, with all the tact expected of a Tommyinnit “Did you get hit by a car or something?”

“Thanks” Wilbur croaks, wincing at the sound that is being all but ripped out of his throat, and finally, finally, Phil reacts.

“You need to-you need to lay down” he lets out a slight disbelieving laugh as gripping Wilbur by the elbow. “Jesus Christ, mate” he chokes out when Wilbur all but flopped on him, putting his complete body weight on the smaller man.

“I was lying down, then you guys woke me up” he whined, eyes shut tight.

Techno hovered awkwardly, looking like he had no idea what to do with his hands as Tommy pushed past them in the direction of the kitchen, throwing open the kitchen cupboards and rummaging loudly inside of them. “Big man!” He calls, only to lower his voice, contrite, at Wilbur’s full body wince “sorry. Where’s your medicine? I know you have some, you hoard that shit.”

Wilbur made a noise that might almost be mistaken for human as he loosely gestured towards . . . somewhere in the kitchen. Great. He had never been the most coordinated person, with his lanky build and long limbs, but now he seemed positively boneless.

“Wilbur” Phil said, trying to meet his eyes. It took a second for them to focus, which wasn’t worrying at all, but something did seem to register, because the musician just said “third cupboard on the left.”

Then, almost sulkily “I took some Tylenol though.”

“Yes, you did very good” Phil soothed, finally reaching the bedroom. “I think you may need some more though, I don’t think it did enough.”

‘Don’t think it did enough’ was an understatement. He kind of looked like he had just been to a steam room.

“And maybe some soup while we’re at it” he added as he gently tried to place Wilbur on the bed. It was hard- the fucker kept clutching at him like a drowned kitten. A very thin kitten.

Except Wilbur made a retching noise that resounded deep within the bowels of hell and had Techno make a very uncertain step back. “Don’t want soup” he slurred, curling inwards around his stomach.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

He made a noise like a squeaky toy being stepped on and shook his head, pressing it into the pillow. “Okay, well, tell you what; me and the others will make you some soup, you can have some more medicine, then you can go to sleep.”

Wilbur makes a noise of complaint but doesn’t outright refuse, which is a good thing since he definitely needs to eat something. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Techno asked, making Phil jump as he had forgotten about him.

“Ruining” he let a hand flop about in the air lazily “ruining the day.” Techno just stared at him for a long moment.

“Not your fault your body is throwing a tantrum. Besides” he adds “you’re not worse than Phil was when he came down with a chest infection. Whiny bitch.”

The older man just glares at him. “I don't think you'd be much better,” he says.

“I have long since transcended my physical form Phil. Death and illness? But a notion to me.”

Wilbur snorts, and immediately looks like he regrets it. His duvet, which had clearly been kicked off at one point, lies crumpled on the floor, and Phil picks it up. Carefully dropping it over Wilbur’s shivering form, he nods for Techno to follow Tommy into the kitchen.

The curtains are still shut and the room is still dark and he watches as slowly, Wilbur’s eyes drift shut and his breathing starts to even out. When he finally does fall asleep, Phil does not leave immediately, instead choosing to run his hand through his usually fluffy hair and try not to grimace at the heat it was giving off.

Wilbur made a snuffling sound in his sleep, leaning into the hand and making Phil smile, but frowning suddenly, glancing at the door of the bedroom.

. . . . Tommy does know how to make soup, right?

  
  


* * *

“We left you alone for five minutes,” Techno said in disbelief, and Tommy scowled.

“Fuck you too” he said. “Not my fault this house has little bitchy technology.” As if to prove his point, he smacks the blender hard enough that it almost falls over. Techno just sighs and starts investigating the fridge.

“Luckily for Wilbur, I know how to make a pretty good potato soup.” He winces the second it leaves his mouth, realising he just left himself wide open there, but Tommy doesn’t comment on it, oddly enough.

No instead, the youngest is leaning against the counter and staring at the door to Wilbur’s bedroom.

_Ah. Shit._

Feelings.

“Wilbur’ll be fine” he says gruffly, focusing on the potatoes with razor like intensity. Tommy snorts.

“Obviously. Just being dramatic little bitch baby-” His breath catches and oh _God_ this is awkward, but Techno looks at the youngest.

He’s not crying but he is kind of pale. He must now Techno is watching him, because he just says “he looked like he was going to keel over in the doorway. This, uh, wasn’t how I saw this day going.”

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , how do responsible people do this? “Phil’s not too worried” he lies “and it seems to be just a fever. You should have seen him try and coordinate his limbs in a reasonable way. That was hilarious.” Then he hesitates “I was pretty scared as well though.”

“I wasn’t scared” Tommy interrupts immediately. “I’m not scared of anything, I’m a big man.”

“Yeah you are” Phil says, exiting the bedroom, phone in hand. “I’m texting Kristen” he says by way of explanation “letting her know what’s happening. She’ll probably want to come home as soon as possible.” He paused, then frowned “I’m taking a break from streaming today too.”

“So am I” Tommy says immediately.

“Well, duh" Techno says eloquently, rummaging around for a chopping board. 

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long he was in bed, the covers suffocating him. Time felt fluid as he drifted through a haze, stifling and heavy. Moaning, he attempted to kick the covers off of him, only for them to be tucked right back on almost immediately after.

“No, no, you need to keep those on mate.”

He knew the voice but the words were discordant, too far away to comprehend and understand. What he did know was that the oppressive weight was back again and it felt awful. He wiggled a bit, trying to get them off, but they didn’t budge.

“I know, I know this must feel awful to you but you need to keep the blanket on.”

Exhausted, he finally ceased and he felt something pull away from him.

His dreams were weird; guitars dripping into wax that burnt him, rivers made of glass, red skies made of dust, and dull voices in the background.

Something cold and damp hit his forehead, and he tried to move away, but then there was a hand cupping the back of his neck, keeping him in place. “You’re alright” a voice soothed, and Wilbur knew that voice.

“Kristen?” He tried, and couldn’t get any more words out. The hand stroked the back of his neck before pulling away quickly.

When did Kristen get here? The only people here should be. . . should be. . .

“Hey big man” Tommy said, startling him enough to actually open his eyes. The teen was kneeling in front of him, inches from his eyes, but he couldn’t find it within him to actually move away.”You look like shit.”

“Feel like shit” he croaked, and

b

l

i

n

k

e

d.

Hands under his chin, forcing his head up and eyes open, and when had they closed again? Phil’s face, pale and drawn, stared down at him, before a cup was brought up to his lips.

It was warm and thick and coated Wilbur’s throat nicely, making it easier to breathe but his stomach recoiled at the addition of soup. He groaned and tried to retreat, but couldn’t. The cup was taken away and Phil’s worried eyes were back.

“Wilbur, you need to have something.”

Worried. Phil was worried. About what?

“About you, Will” oh he had said that outloud “you need to eat something if you want to get better.”

_Get better. Get better._

“Am I dying?” He asked, and felt Tommy recoil beside him.

“Don’t be stupid” Techno and his afterimages said. “You’re fine-well you will be, once you eat some more soup.”

He just stares at him, trying to figure out which Technoblade is the real Technoblade, and all twelve of him deflate. “Just-please.”

He’s _never_ heard Techno beg before.

He takes two more swallows of the soup, and dozes off.

Until he’s awoken by his stomach roiling and twists over. Kristen is already two steps ahead and whips out a bucket for him to retch into.

When it’s over, he can feel her fingers wind their way through his hair. “Ah Will” he hears her, muffled “what did you do to yourself?”

* * *

  
  


More time lost in wispy dreams and even more intangible reality-worried voices all around.

_“Should we call an ambulance?”_

_“His fever hasn’t been that long?”_

_“But it’s so high! Surely that can’t be normal.”_

_“It’s going down now.”_

_“Not fast enough.”_

* * *

  
  


When he wakes properly, the first thought in his head is _God fucking dammit._

Because **ow.**

His head hurts, a dull throb in the back of his skull, and he feels all gross and sticky and his mouth tastes weird and-

_Oh._

Laying all around the room are the figures of Phil, Kristen, Techno and Tommy. He spends an inordinate amount of time staring at Kristen in particular. When did she get here?

Faint memories; of hands in his hair and cool skin and weird fever dreams-

Aw fuck, he was sick.

Was. Past tense. 

Probably.

He had gotten sick and forced the others to take care of him. Jesus Christ, next time he was just giving up and moping in his bedroom, because the others were clearly exhausted if their sleeping forms had anything to say about it.

As if on cue, Phil stirs from his seat, dragged in from the kitchen, beside him. “Will!” He says, seeming delighted and waking up the others in the process.

The others seem just as thrilled, if Tommy’s giant grin, Techno’s relieved smile and Kristen’s laugh are anything to go by. Techno all but fumbles for the nearest water bottle to give to Wilbur, of which there are plenty.

He seems to notice the staring, and simply states “it took a lot of water to cool you down.”

“Yeah big man, you basically started a water crisis.” In a true act of mercy, Wilbur does not comment on the shininess of Tommy’s eyes or the wobbliness of his voice when he says that.

“I’m glad you’re okay Will.” Kristen, completely sincere.

Wilbur chugs half the bottle before responding, and winces at the looks of obvious relief the others give him when he actually ingests the liquid. Right. “I’m sorry you were stuck taking care of me” he says, because it’s only fair to say so.

Except the others just frown. “What did you think we were going to do? Leave you there to suffer?” Phil asks, looking baffled.

“No, just. You were there. The whole time.”

“Of course we were, dumbass” Techno reaches out and actually grabs his hand, holy shit, who was this guy and what did he do with Techno? “We were worried.”

Ah. “I’m sorry.”

Well now they just looked frustrated, frowning at him. “Wilbur” Phil says, slowly “we came because we care about you. We stayed because we care about you. We were worried, because we care about you.”

“Not your fault your immune system was being a big a bitch as you were” Tommy says.

Wilbur blinks at them for a long moment, before Kristen is shoving herself to her feet, clapping her hands. “Alright” she says, brightly. “You have not had anything solid to eat in two days, so I’m going to go fix that.”

“Two days?!” Wilbur shrieks, before devolving into a hacking cough that has everyone faltering. Phil’s hand rests on his back, which is nice.

Everything about this is nice, actually.

His blankets and clothes and hair and skin are soaked in sweat and his throat and head ache and his stomach is kind of trying to eat itself and the fever dreams are probably going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

But still. They stayed.

And they don’t even complain when he starts to fall asleep again, head slumping against Phil’s shoulder. Kristen will probably wake him up to make him eat some dry ass toast later.

Still. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream with me on tumblr here: https://serendipitous-posts.tumblr.com/


	3. Wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a dangerous thing to do, go into the woods at night alone
> 
> Would you be okay with writing dream smp kid!Wilbur?  
> One day he got upset over something, maybe thinking his dad prefers Techno or Tommy over him (doens't have to be this tho) and he wondered into the woods and lost his way? And then Dadza has the whole search party up and comforts Wilbur at the end when he finds him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Planning this
> 
> Me: Remembers that this is set in pre-Dream Smp universe
> 
> Also me: ...oh this’ll be fun
> 
> \-----  
> Cw: implication of suicidal ideation (Wilbur enters the forest without weaponry, Phil is concerned as to why, but it's not the reason), low self worth, and arachnophobia
> 
> Dream smp Wilbur canonically had mental health issues and depression, which is implied in the first entry in the strikethrough paragraph.
> 
> Stay safe guys!

It’s easy to excuse him.

It’s always easy to excuse Phil.

It’s- look the guy has a lot on his plate. He never asked to raise three kids, and Wilbur will forever be grateful to him for not turning him away all those years ago. A single parent of three kids, especially those three kids? Yeah, it makes sense he doesn’t have time for everyone.

Tommy is a child, barely out of toddlerhood, and has been raising hell ever since he stepped foot in their house. He needs constant supervision to stop him from doing something crazy, like destroying the forest.

And as for Techno, well. Wilbur still has the scar Techno gave him the first time he ever entered bloodlust. Him training with Phil, learning to control it? That’s a good thing, a _great_ thing.

Wilbur is, objectively speaking, the most stable out of the trio.

~~ Except for the times he starts crying and can’t stop and has to muffle his sobs with a pillow because the fear of someone coming and him having to explain that he’s crying for no reason makes him want to bury himself. ~~

He’s thirteen the first time Phil ever hands Tommy to him with the express order to “look after him.” He takes his job very seriously, playing warriors with his little brother and singing him songs until his dad and Techno get back.

It’s almost sundown when they do, and Phil thanks him with a weary smile and ruffled hair and an “I’m proud of you.”

To someone like Wilbur, who realised at the tender age of ten that he would do anything to make this man proud, this is something he cherishes.

It starts to become a common thing of him minding Tommy; he doesn’t mind it, he likes Tommy, even though he’s never gonna tell him that directly. The praise starts to peter out after a while though.

Which is fine! Not like he was expecting to get lavished in tongue baths every time he did it.

And he’s making it sound like Phil is spending all his time with Techno, which. _No_. He spends a whole day on him, yeah, but only like once a week. There used to be more, almost three days, but it’s shortened now. It’s a big sign of how far he’s come.

But Phil also spends time with Tommy. Tommy likes to hear his stories, the one about his grand adventures. Wilbur likes sitting in on them sometimes, but he wants this to be Tommy’s thing with Phil.

The problem is. . . Phil doesn’t really spend that much time with him.

He did, at one point, when Wilbur was younger; telling him the same stories he told Tommy, or training him.

Wilbur isn’t exactly regretful he stopped sword fighting in favour of focusing on music, but he does miss the one on one time. He feels like he hasn’t gotten it in-

He tries not to think too much about that, because that always leads to him feeling sad.

* * *

Of all the straws to break the camel’s back; it’s a rocket launcher of all things.

The noise is loud, okay. Loud enough that it disturbs him from song writing. It could almost be mistaken for a creeper noise, except it was almost. . . musical in nature.

And you know him. He’s gotta check that out.

It’s Technoblade. _Damn_ , loud noises usually mean Tommy.

He has something in his hands, something that almost seems like a crossbow, except when he points it at the bird flying by and shoots it-

Explosion of colours that spin behind his eyes and flip every  _ hell yeah _ in his head. It’s bright, it’s loud, it colourful. It’s everything Wilbur never knew he needed.

The bird flops to the floor. “Lunch” Technoblade says with deep satisfaction, picking the charred carcass up, only to pause at the sight of Wilbur. “Oh, hey. What are you doing?”

It occurs to him that he probably looks a little. . . weird, leaning against the porch railing, the only reason he hasn’t faceplanted being his long ass legs. 

But. . .

“What is that?”

Techno looks down at the thing in his hand, then back up. “Uh, it’s a rocket launcher?” He offers, seeming surprised by his sudden interest in weaponry. “It uses gunpowder to make these mini explosions. Pretty neat.”

_Pretty neat_. Please. That was _art._

“I didn’t know gunpowder could be so pretty” he breathes, looking at the fading blues and greens in the sky.

“Gunpowder can be a lot of things.” Techno smirks, only to perk up when Phil came out of the house.

Their father looks briefly concerned by how the Piglin is cradling the dead pigeon corpse, but ultimately just says “alright, Techno, time for training.”

He nods, and this usually is the part where Wilbur excuses himself, retreats to the other side of the house so as not to listen to the sounds of chatter and laughter. But this time he just positions himself on the porch railing, cross legged.

Phil frowns at him. ”Wilbur, I need you to clear out, it’s training time.”

“I wanna watch!” He protested, pouting good naturedly.

“Sorry, Will, this is our time, get your own” Techno says, grinning. Wilbur snorts, but stops when he sees the look on his dad’s face.

Phil’s mouth is pulled down in a grimace as he frowns at Wilbur, who feels something cold in his chest begin to form. Because that is not a joking look of admonishment. That is a genuinely reprimanding look on his face as he tells his son to go away.

_ He doesn’t want you here. _

“Fine” he mutters, swinging around and retreating back to the house, but not before catching the look of relief on his dad’s face.

_ He doesn’t want you here. _

* * *

He doesn’t quite burst into tears but it’s a near thing.

Wilbur collapses on his bedroom, pillow over his head to try and block out the sounds of  _ cheering, laughter, explosions _ he can hear in the distance.

_ Look how much happier they are without you. _

When was the last time Phil had ever laughed like that with him?

It’s a sobering thought.

There is a picture beside his bed of him and his family. The pillow blocks the view perfectly. But Techno and Phil weren’t the only two in that photo. Tommy, Tommy was there too.

Tommy definitely loved him.

Tommy’s face lit up as he saw the two figures. “Dad! Techno!” He cried, racing out to them, demanding cool stories and never once looking behind at Wilbur.

He squeezes his eyes tight and tries to ignore the memory. Too late.

_If Phil didn’t want me, he wouldn’t have taken me in,_ he argues, only for his brain to immediately supply the dreaded word. _Pity._

He had pitied him, the malnourished dirty boy who he found on the streets of the city he was visiting. Pity had gotten Wilbur into this home, and it was only pity that allowed him to stay.

_That_ was why Phil was always so awkward around him! He wanted him to leave.

He pulled himself out of his bed awkwardly and stumbled to the door like a marionette on strings. Phil and Techno were still training around the front of the house, he could hear them, but the back door was free of use.

Their house was in the middle of nowhere, no other people around with only the thick, winding forest as a neighbour.

He has always gone into it with Techno or Phil by his side.

_ You’re gonna leave without saying goodbye? To Tommy? Tommy likes you- _

_ Tommy is taking a nap. You’re not waking him up just to say goodbye. _

He pushed onwards without a word.

* * *

Wilbur’s disappearance isn’t discovered until _much_ later.

Techno was a naturally violent person. Phil had taken a huge risk by giving him that rocket launcher. The chance of him turning it on the forest surrounding them both was big.

Still, he had done well with the rocket launcher, he had almost seemed to enjoy it as much as Wilbur did.

He felt kind of shitty about ushering him away, but considering he still had the scar from when Techno almost skewered him. Phil was certain he wouldn’t turn his weapons on either of his brothers on purpose, but. Better safe than sorry.

Besides, he can make it up to Wilbur later.

~~You always say that.~~

The period after training is always the best though, when you’re so tired that you’re incapable of worrying over the little things and just want to rest.

Or well.

_Supposed_ to be incapable.

Because seconds after he enters the house Tommy comes down the stairs, thunderously loud. “Where’s Wilbur?” He demands “He promised he’d show me his new song.”

“Have you checked his bedroom?” He asks absently.

“Yes. And all the other rooms.”

Phil looks down at the small child and frowns. “Wilbur!” He calls over his shoulder, loud as he can get. No answer.

Tommy crosses his arms, looking unbearably smug. “Told you.” But Techno just shoves by him to the backdoor.

“Not in the garden” he says, tense.

Well, if he’s not in the garden, and not in the house, then he must be in. . .

Phil looks outside at the sky, which is already darkening past the point of sunset. “WILBUR!” Tommy and Techno both jump at the volume, but nobody else appears.

Techno all but vaults the table to grab supplies, his earlier fatigue gone. “Don’t know what he was thinking” he mutters “why would he go in the forest?”

“HE’S IN THE FOREST?!” Tommy yells, eyes wide.

“Maybe not” Phil argues weakly as he too reaches for his supplies. 

“I thought you said we weren’t allowed in the forest alone” Tommy accuses, and Phil nods.

“We’re not.”

A giant grin starts to take over Tommy’s face. “Oh, he’s in trouble” he says, bright and excited.

“Yeah he is.”

“He broke two of dad’s rules” Tommy says, not registering the growing panic.

“Two?”

Tommy points to the corner of the room, where Wilbur’s sword lies. “No going out into the forest without weapons” he chants, sing song, and completely misses the look of horror on the two older faces.

* * *

He doesn’t see the cliff edge until it’s far too late.

It’s getting dark out, is the thing, the sky dimming like a flickering torchlight, and he knows what that means-mobs will be spawning soon. He keeps taking nervous looks towards the sky and not on the ground below and the muted light doesn’t help-

His left foot meets air and he takes a plunge.

Sharp, staccato like bursts of pain, the taste of blood in his mouth.

He’s lucky though; the fall wasn’t too far and he comes to almost immediately, blinking up at the sky. The sky that was now far, far darker than it was before, stars forcing their way onto the landscape.

Shit.

Wilbur sent a quick prayer of thanks to his d-to Phil, for teaching them all basic survival skills. He can see a cave in the distance that he can hide in for the night, and with the forestry around him he would be able to light a fire.

He tries to pull himself to his feet.

  
  


Only to find himself flat on his back, tasting bile in the back of his throat that feels torn from his short scream of pain. 

His leg. Something is wrong with his leg.

He strains his neck, trying to see without actually moving his body, because it feels like the bones in his left leg were replaced with _ shattered glass _ and they were now trying to dig their way out of his  _ skin _ .

Broken. Sprained, at the very least.

His other leg isn’t as bad, but he cringes when he tries to rotate his ankle. Twisted. Won’t support his weight.

God he's such an idiot. Walking out like that, with nothing on him, when there was no civilisation for miles. What had he been thinking? Answer: He hadn't been. And now he looked so _pathetic_ , laying on his back with nothing to protect him, not even trying to move.

Wilbur stares up at the ever darkening sky and wonders when the monsters will realise there is an immobile child at the base of this drop.

* * *

“Wilbur!” Phil called, wings flapping furiously without actually lifting him. The forest was too dense for overhead flying.

The forest, which was the literal textbook definition of a maze. The forest, which would soon be filling up with monsters. The forest, where his son has wandered into.

_**His son!-** _

A weight settling into his hands distracts him. “Any sign of him?” Techno asks, scanning the area around them both. Like he doesn’t have the best night vision of the family.

Phil shakes his head.

Usually in this sort of situation, the solution is to gather a search party and spread out. Two problems with that; one, he built a house completely secluded from the rest of civilization and decided not to bring Tommy along in the middle of the night, leaving just him and Techno. Two, the forest is too thick to spread out. The last thing Phil needs is to lose his other son.

That means the two have to meander their way through, with their lights and their feet and their voices to catch Wilbur’s attention. The worst part is, if Will listened during his mandatory safety talks, he would probably be in a cave right now, away from the voices.

He packed three health potions on the way. He hopes it doesn’t have to come to that.

~~ But with every minute of shouting that doesn’t have a response, an image becomes more and more clear against his eyelids, imprinted between blinks; finding the cave and walking in to find his son’s corpse slumped against the wall, body twisted and blood decorating the stone like writing. ~~

He sucks in a deep breath then tries again “Wilbur!”

* * *

Wilbur was honestly kind of wishing for unconsciousness right now. Because what was happening would almost be boring if it weren’t so scary.

He had always liked the sound of the winds through the trees- natures music, he had once called it, only to flush at the laughter-but now it’s distorted, twisted almost, tricking him into hearing the sounds of spiders hissing and zombies moaning.

Unless he _is_ actually hearing those things.

He had tried to move again, this time dragging himself carefully backwards to where the wall of the edge he had fallen off of was, pressing himself against the wall in some pathetic form of protection.

Still, a small bit of cobblestone lies within reach, if he stretches. It’s painful as all hell, but he does get there, picking up the fist sized rock.

_Always have something on you,_ Phil’s voice told him. _Even if it’s not much._

How had he forgotten that? It was like rule number one, never leave the house without a weapon, and he had just forgotten.

No wonder Phil wanted nothing to do with him.

A fresh bout of tears stung his eyes, and he tried to blink them back. His face was already red and sticky from earlier, and he didn’t want anything to hear him crying in the night.

And between one blink and the next, they appear.

Bright, red eyes. Eight of them actually, all blinking across at him from the other side of the clearing.

Wilbur, like any reasonable creature, really fricking hates mobs. But spiders? Spiders are the _worst_.

Case in point; this one, with it’s spiked, thin legs that shouldn’t be able to hold up it’s heavy hairy body, it’s awful, multiple eyes, the fangs-

The smell is the worst though. Sickly sweet, even from the distance between them Wilbur is left gagging at the smell in the air. It reminds him of the time Tommy had caught a butterfly in a drawer and forgot about it. The drawer had been cleaned out but the smell had remained for weeks.

The spider took a single step forward, hairy body pulsing as much as the blood in Wilbur’s ears. 

“Wilbur!” Faint and distant, but very much there.

Wilbur broke.

“Dad! Daddy, I’m here, I wanna go home, daddy please! Dad!” He babbled at the top of his lungs, like a _toddler_ , like a _baby_ , the tears he had been trying to keep back breaking out of his eyes and escaping down his cheeks.

His body spasmed in a mixture of fear, desperation and sobbing as he kept screaming.

“I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry dad! Please help me, please!”_

* * *

Sounds echo in the forest. They bounce off trees and rocks, like a game of Chinese whisperers. You never know for sure if you’re going in the right direction.

Which means that Phil could be running away from his sons screams for all he knew.

That didn’t stop him or Techno from racing towards where Wilbur’s voice seemed to be coming from, tripping over roots that wound their way around their feet.

There was another rule of the forest; not to separate from your partner. Especially when that partner is your child.

But Technoblade almost eats dirt after a particularly insidious root, and just tosses a sword at Phil. Not even breaking stride, he catches it. “Go” Techno tells him, and Phil hesitates for a moment, but Techno just takes out his knife, and he remembers the training he’s done.

Training that Will does not have.

He can move faster without worrying about Techno, using his wings as accelerators, flapping furiously to gain momentum. He breaks out of the tree cover and soars for a brief second, over an overhang-only for his sons voice to lock his wings up and send him plummeting.

Phil catches himself at the last second but his landing is less than graceful. Still, he manages to land between the man eating spider and his own son, so that at least is a victory.

The only one of the day.

Will looks awful, dirty and red faced from tears, clutching a rock in his hands as he leans against the dirt. Why isn’t he standing? Why are his legs splayed out like that? Where are his weapons.

Phil loses precious seconds just staring at his son, taking him in.

The spider is on him by the time he turns around.

Wilbur screams again when the spider pins him, but Phil slices upwards; into the spider’s stomach and causing it to retreat, hissing. It almost looks like it’s going to retreat, but he is on his feet in an instant, wings flared.

~~ His son is injured, something is wrong with his legs, he was screaming- ~~

It isn’t getting away like that.

Cutting a spiders abdomen in half is the most painful way to kill one. It can take hours, even days for it to properly die. 

Phil doesn’t even flinch at the pained shriek it lets out as he does so.

He spares it a half a second look, then he’s spinning back around, to Wilbur, whose staring at him, eyes red and shiny.

“Daddy” he says, which he hasn't called Phil in _ages_ , all wobbly “daddy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-” He tries to gesture with his hands but Phil just twines their fingers together. He’s shaking. They both are.

* * *

“Do you want to tell me why you went out there tonight?”

It’s been a long day and an even longer night, but Phil doesn’t want to wait until the morning to do this, when Techno and Tommy could overhear.

Wilbur doesn't respond, just hugging his knees to his chest without comment. Phil bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood.

Now is not the time to get angry at him. Now is the time for patience.

“Okay” he says, “why did you leave the house without a weapon?”

Wilbur absolutely fucking crumples, like a tissue that someone just poured water onto, folding in on himself as his eyes start to water once more. Carefully, Phil grabs a washcloth and wipes the rest of the dirt and snot and tears off his face.

And tries to ignore just how shocked, how touched, Wilbur seems to be by that gesture.

“Just-tell me this” he begs, because this, this he needs to know “did you leave your weapon behind on purpose?”

Will’s eyes always looked big behind his glasses, but now the appear almost comical, blown wide with shock. “What?” He asks, and something in Phil relaxes at the genuinely confused tone of his voice “why would I-why would I leave my weapon’s behind on purpose before going into a monster infected wood?”

Definitely not _that_ then.

Then, because he can’t be too happy, Wilbur adds “I’m not that stupid, you know.”

Phil pauses in cleaning his son’s face. “I don’t-I don’t think you’re stupid at all” he says, and is rewarded with a scoff and a sinking stomach.

“I don’t!” He insists. “You’re not stupid, Will.”

“I forgot my weapon,” he said, clearly miserable. “And I saw a cave but I couldn’t enter it, because my leg hurt and I didn’t want to move it.”

He stared at the boy. “You had a broken leg. This isn’t exactly a papercut we’re talking about here mate. You can’t walk that off.”

“Techno could’ve.”

It was probably supposed to be a quiet comment, that mutter, but in the near silence of the sitting room, it was as loud as a creeper explosion.

Wilbur’s face paled, the red blotches from crying standing in stark contrast to his now milky skin.

Phil just stares at him trying to understand what he means by that. You know what he means by that. 

Still. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing bad” Wilbur says immediately, shuffling back awkwardly. “It’s just-I’ve heard the stories, alright?”

“The stories.”

He nods frantically. “Of all the awesome things he’s done, gonna do, whatever. He could do it. He could have taken that spider on with his bare hands. You spend all your time training him, after all.”

“I don’t spend all my time training him” Phil responds, before his brain can even catch up to what he’s saying, to what Wilbur’s saying, implying, but his son actually nods in agreement.

“No you’re right” his skin is gaining colour again rapidly; his ears already starting to tinge red “you spent the entire last week just teaching Tommy how to use an elytra.”

There’s a long pause. Phil waits for him to continue, but Wilbur just looks at him blankly, statement apparently over. 

He actually has to take a second, the faint stirrings of nausea serving as a good distraction for him not to ask, but still he prompts “and you?”

It becomes full blown nausea when his son just stares at him, puzzled. “What? What about me?” He asks, words like a kick straight to the gut.

_I spend time with you too,_ he wants to say, and is about to bring up an example.

The closest memory he has of him and Wilbur spending time together is when Wilbur played him his new song. Which he cut short because Tommy cut himself on a blade trying to teach himself how to throw knifes. They had spent the rest of the day together, Phil guiding him through it.

That was. . . that was two months ago.

Oh _Prime_ , no.

Wilbur, astute little fucker that he is, immediately reads his face and starts panicking. “No, no, dad, it’s okay. I get it. Techno needs help with his bloodlust, and Tommy is-Tommy. And we don’t really have that many things in common so-”

“So you left. That’s why you left.  _ I’m _ why you left.”

He actually thinks he’s going to be sick.

What the hell kind of father is he?

“I’m sorry” is all he can say, like that makes up for it, like that makes up for driving your preteen son to run away. But he can’t stop repeating it. “I am so, so sorry Wilbur.”

If Wilbur was panicked before, now he’s edging into the realm of outright horrified. “You’re crying” he says, and Phil has never cried in front of his kids before. Never. 

“I’m a **horrible** father.”

His son all but scrambles to get closer to him. “You’re a great dad!” He protests. “You’re great! You look after all of us, and you took me in, even though you didn’t have to.”

“I made you runaway!” Phil explodes, jerking to his feet, wings out and ruffled. Wilbur all but recoils, and isn’t that another wound that he seems to be collecting today. “You- I made you think you weren’t loved!”

“I know you love me” Wilbur argued.

“Just not as much as Tommy and Techno, huh?”

The silence is answer enough. _Primes_.

Phil is taller than Wilbur, though he suspects puberty will soon change that. Now though, he crouches down so they are on eye level, and Wilbur’s chin trembles dangerously. “I do love you” he says “as much as I love Tommy and as much as I love Techno. The idea that I have favourites-that I can somehow love them more than I love you, that is-”

Words have never been Phil’s weapon.

It’s not as much as a hug as it is a cradle, Wilbur almost boneless against him as Phil places a hand on his back and on the back of his head, blinking up at the ceiling. He can still taste blood from where he bit the inside of his mouth, but it’s better than the nausea.

Wilbur’s crying again. This time, he hopes it’s a good thing.

“For the record” Phil says wetly “Techno absolutely would not have walked off a broken leg. And he wouldn’t have been able to fight off a spider with his bare hands alone.”

Wilbur lets out a shaky laugh, and Phil pulls back, cupping his face.

“I don’t think you’re stupid” he continues delicately “you’re- you’re so smart Will. You know so much about geography and music and people-you can write melodies and lyrics and you just get people, just by looking at them.”

“And I love you Will, so much.” His son made a choked noise, leaning into his hands as Phil kissed the top of his head. “You’re right, we don’t hang out together that much. But that’s on me. And if you want, we can fix that.”

* * *

It’s kind of awkward at first; Phil deliberately setting aside one day a week just to spend time with him. It almost makes him feel like some sort of chore, at first, even to the point of telling Phil it was okay if he wanted to go back to Techno or Tommy.

His dad always looked so upset when he suggested that though, so he was learning not to.

Today though, Phil is grinning and carrying a package in his hands, delicately wrapped. “The others all have weapons” he tells him “it’s only fair you do too.”

Wilbur tries not to frown; he’s never been the biggest fan of weapons and Phil knows this. Still, he looks excited, so he opens it, and gasps.

It’s a rocket launcher, like he one he gave to Techno a couple of weeks back. Wilbur runs his hands over the sleek object, imagining the bright colours pouring out of this thing, only to find an inscription.

“Chekhovs gun” he reads on the side.

“That means it’ll have to be fired” Phil grins “and that you can’t forget about it.”

“I won’t” Wilbur says, about the gift, and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream with me on tumblr: https://serendipitous-posts.tumblr.com/


	4. Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wings are said to skip a generation. This isn't one of those times
> 
> How about a fluff fic about Wilbur feeling sad because Tommy grew wings and he didn't? Then Philza comforts him and he carries his grown up son and flies around with him so he can feel what it's like? Bonus if Tommy does his making fun of someone but still trying to be comforting thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frantically googling parts of the wing as I write
> 
> CW: Mild body horror once Tommy gets his wings

The coolest thing about Phil is hands down his wings.

Sure, others would say his fighting experience or his adventures or the collection of strange trinkets he’s ~~hoarded~~ collected over the years. And don’t get Wilbur wrong! Those are all great!

But his wings are the best.

There so cool; a soft grey that reminded him almost of a dove. The lower ones, his primaries and secondaries were darker, fading almost into black at the tips. 

Techno calls his fascination with them an obsession but Techno doesn’t know shit. It’s fascination that leads him to picking up the striped feathers that sometimes fall out, and it’s fascination that leads him to ask Phil to teach him how to help preen his wings.

He loves preening Phil’s wings-they’re so soft, and remind him when he was younger, when he was small enough to snuggle inside. Bittersweet memories; it would usually happen after a particularly bad panic attack in his youth.

Techno had long since outgrown the days of watching Phil fly, treating it as normal, but Wilbur was thrilled to notice that Tommy was following in his stalkerish footsteps. The two would usually have a competition over who could spot him flying first, whereupon they would pause the days activities just to watch him fly.

He was so graceful, in the air, swooping and diving, completely carefree in a way that Wilbur envied. Clearly Tommy agreed, because one day, watching Phil become a distant dot in the sky as he flew higher, he said “I wish I could do that.”

Wilbur just let out a small hum of agreement, eyes still on Phil.

Tommy’s voice turned more insistent. “No, I mean I wish I had wings as well.” His voice turned contemplative. “The shit I could pull with those bad boys.”

“Probably for the best you don’t have any then” Wilbur laughed, only to wince when Tommy flinched. 

There was a brief moment of awkward silence, whereupon Wilbur glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. “I wish I had them too.”

Tommy peeked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah” Wilbur sighed “it just- it looks so fun.”

His little brother grinned at him, sharp and feral. “Ah well, makes sense God had to kneecap us like that. We are already way too powerful.”

“You wings would probably be tiny anyways.”

“No they wouldn’t! They’d be huge.”

“Ah, to overcompensate. Yes.”

“Oh would- fuck off!”

  
  


* * *

Tommy’s wings, as it turns out, aren’t tiny.

It started out so subtle that nobody besides Phil really realises what’s going on at first; Tommy complaining about a ‘gross ass rash’ on his back at the dinner table, like that is all news they have to know this very second, then extends to back pain, before evolving into full on back agony.

Wilbur was woken in the middle of the night to his little brother's screams. His screams and several, ear splitting cracking sounds.

He’s already ripping Tommy’s door open by the time Techno’s door cracks open, but someone else has gotten to him first.

Phil was kneeling beside Tommy’s bed, his hands carding through Tommy’s hair as he thrashed about like a fish, mummering something to him in a low voice, trying to soothe him. It didn’t work; Tommy just inhaled again, and let out another gut wrenching scream that had Wilbur stumbling towards him.

“What happened?!” He asked, dropping down beside Phil, whose face was pale but concentrated.

“His wings are growing in!” Phil had to shout as a crack, like the sound of breaking ice, almost drowned him out completely.

Wilbur-and Techno, who was standing behind the both of them-both stared, first at Phil, then at Tommy. And then Wilbur could see it; the way Tommy was arching his back off the bed, how his spine seemed to almost twist.

The cracking noises, he realised with dawning horror. They’re coming from Tommy’s _spine_.

Then; “He’s growing wings?!”

“Did I not just say that?!” Phil snapped, before visibly calming himself. “Techno, go get some more painkillers, he’s gonna need them.”

Wilbur had never seen anyone move so fast in their life.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asked desperately.

“Stay with him” Phil nodded at the teen “let him know you’re here. It helps.”

“Anything-anything else?”

“Sorry mate” Phil said sympathetically. “This ain’t the kind of thing you can help with. He’s just gotta ride this one out on his own.”

* * *

Tommy’s wings took a week for their feathers to grow in, up till that point he had been walking around carrying two fleshy pink appendages on his back.

Wilbur still kind of feels bad for laughing.

But now they were a tawny colour-almost gold in the sunlight. He seems to delight in stretching them out at any given opportunity, staring at them in wide eyed awe and excitement. Already he had shown them off to Tubbo, who gasped and gaped over the wings as expected.

His primaries and secondaries don’t appear to be striped, instead blotches like spots, white, matching the inside coverts are dotted here and there.

He says they _appear to be_ , because Wilbur had yet to take the opportunity to properly inspect them. He doesn’t collect the few downy feathers that fall off like he collects Phil’s, doesn’t jump on the opportunity to preen Tommy’s wings like he does Phil’s.

The others had noticed, he knew, even if they pretended not to. Even if Phil’s look of confusion and Techno’s look of concern weren’t common.

Tommy came to the kitchen table one day, absolutely beaming. “What did you do?” Was the first thing out of Techno’s mouth, which, honestly? Valid.

Surprisingly, the youngest _didn’t_ immediately launch into a rant disowning his older brother, and instead just smiled even wider, which was. Creepy. “Phil’s gonna teach me how to fly today!” He chirped, wings flapping in his excitement.

Wilbur put down his spoon, suddenly not as hungry as he had been.

“Yeah, this is gonna be _great_ ” Phil chuckled, entering the room. “Though, you are probably gonna crash a lot at first. And by probably I mean definitely.”

“Nah” Tommy shook his head “I’m gonna nail it first time. Right, Wilbur?”

Wilbur pushed back his chair so quickly it screeched against the floor. “I need to go do- a thing” he muttered, hurrying away so quickly he almost missed the look of hurt on Tommy’s face.

And the look of realisation on Techno’s.

* * *

“You’re jealous.”

Wilbur just glared at the intruder standing in his doorway. “I will hit you with this” he said semi seriously, holding up his guitar. Techno took that as permission to enter said bedroom.

“I mean, it makes sense; you’ve been obsessed-”

“Fascinated.”

“-with wings for as long as I can remember. You see Tommy getting to enjoy everything you want but don’t have? I’d be feeling jealous if I were in your shoes.”

Wilbur gritted his teeth. “Has anyone ever told you” he said slowly “that you are _shit_ at comforting people.”

Techno shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know how I can comfort you here” he said “you want wings, but neither of us can do anything about that. Not like Tommy or Phil can give you theirs.”

“So I’m being irrational” Wilbur summarized, arms flopping over his eyes. “Thanks for telling me what I already know.”

“Emotions are dumb” Techno said bluntly “their stupid, and you can’t control them. Just, uh, don’t let them control you?” He flashed two awkward thumbs up, then left, leaving Wilbur alone.

“Well” he commented to the now empty room “ _that_ was helpful.”

* * *

It’s a sad day when Tommyinnit somehow had more manners than Technoblade, but at least the gremlin knew to _knock_ before entering. Well, he threw the door open almost immediately after but still. Knocked.

Wilbur shot upwards in his bed, just to stare.

His wings. . . were a mess. Feathers ruffled and muddied, some even stuck in his hair, which was streaked with dirt and grass. “Training go well?” Wilbur hazarded, and Tommy scowled even more.

“Said I needed to ‘flap less’. The whole point of flying is to flap your Goddamn wings!” Wilbur laughed at that, and the scowl disappeared for a second, replaced by a pleased expression. “Now I have to have another shower.”

“. . . Did you somehow get lost in your own home. Bathroom’s down there, idiot” Wilbur pointed behind Tommy.

. . . . . Who was shifting, foot to foot, looking extremely awkward. 

_Interesting_.

“Phil said I needed to preen first, to prevent any blood feathers from getting damaged” he blurted.

_Not interesting. Bad. Very bad._

“You want to borrow my dustpan for the feathers or something?” He tried.

“I was actually wondering big man, since you were, like, you know, the expert of wing fondling-”

“Maintenance.”

“Sure. That you would have the privilege of helping me.”

Wilbur paused, looking at his brother for a long moment. “Phil would have more personal experience than me” he said, clipped, and Tommy’s expression shuttered.

Even his wings drooped down, as the hope on his face died.

_Jesus. Fine._

“Okay, okay, come here” he groaned, pulling himself up. 

Tommy cheered, racing over to the middle of the room. “You won’t regret it big man.” Wilbur already did.

Preening was very easy, especially for someone like Wilbur who had been doing it for years. Tommy’s feathers were even softer than Phil’s and the loose ones fell out fairly easily, but he only put them in a pile and made no move to keep one as he worked in silence.

Tommy of course, made up for his muteness. “Phil says I have elliptical wings and not high speed wings. It means I shouldn’t be able to fly as fast as him, but what does he know?” He paused, but Wilbur didn’t answer. He nonetheless pushed on. “But it was so great Wilby! Save for crashing at least, but even that was pretty poggers! Just wait until I finally get the hang of this, I’m gonna be so good that you lot are gonna weep when you see me fly by.”

Wilbur’s hands stilled, tightening on a stray feather. He glanced up at Tommy, who had gone still.

“Of course, the crashing was fucking awful” he said “and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this weird weight on my back. I almost ate shit trying to walk down the stairs this morning. And whenever I have a feather out of place, it feels like a fucking hangnail, which is the worst.”

“Oh yeah?” Wilbur said, returning to straightening.

“Yeah, they’re really annoying. Plus, Phil told me about this thing. _Molting_. It’s basically bird puberty” his nose wrinkled and Wilbur laughed.

“That does sound annoying” he agreed, smoothing out the rest of the feathers. His wings were now much less ruffled and haphazard, and shone slightly in his yellowish light.

“Pog” Tommy said quietly as he inspected his wings.

\-----

“Wilbur’s being stupid” is what Tommy said after corning Phil in the kitchen. Which either meant Tommy was annoyed because Wilbur had retaliated for some shit Tommy started or Tommy was worried.

“Oh?” He hummed, putting the last of the dried dishes away.

“I think he’s upset he doesn’t have wings,” Tommy said bluntly. “Actually, I think he’s more upset that I have wings and he doesn't. Little bitch baby.”

Phil turned to his youngest, whose hair was wet and feathers were immaculately groomed. Way too well groomed for someone as impatient as Tommy. “Did he say that to you?” He asked hesitantly.

Tommy scoffed “hell no. But I can read the Goddamn room y’know. And” he shifted, looking behind him “he told me once that he wishes he could fly like you. So. Y’know. Not hard to connect the dots there.”

“Not you’re fault.”

“I know that” the boy blustered, before his shoulders drooped a little “but still; can’t you do anything?”

“I can’t give Wilbur wings, Tommy” Phil said softly “that’s not how it works.”

If he could, he would. He would love for all of his kids to be able to fly, to soar, but especially Wilbur, who has been enthralled in his wings since he first laid eyes on them. But he can’t.

But Tommy just stared up at him desperately. “Can’t you do something?” He asked, in that same tone of voice kids use when they say _my dad can do **anything**!_

And. Well.

\-----

Wilbur Soot would just like to go on record and say he finds this suspicious as all hell.

His dad, dragging him out of bed in the early morning and into the car, was naturally going to raise some alarm bells. What sounded the klaxons is Phil’s odd reluctance to say where exactly they are going.

They drove for _ages_ too, out of the city and into the countryside.

So you can forgive Wilbur for thinking, when Phil stopped in the middle, yes the _middle_ of an abandoned field, got out of his side and opened Wilbur’s with just a “get out”, his immediate thought is _oh fuck, he’s going to kill me_.

The entire scene was straight out of a horror film.

Except for the sunrise. But. Point stands.

And when he does get out of the car, Phil just stared at him for a long moment, before doing something arguably scarier than just flat out killing him. He put his hand on his shoulders and announced “you are my son.”

_Much worse than any horror film._

“Uh, okay” Wilbur, ever the wordsmith, returned.

“If I could give you wings I could” his dad started, and the hand on the shoulder tightened, stopped Wilbur from just flat out bolting and throwing himself into the nearest ditch “but I can’t.”

_Oh God, oh God, where was a serial killer when you needed one?_

“But I can give you _this_ ” Phil said. Wilbur yelped as the shorter male literally swept him off his feet with little effort. _Fuck_ he knew flying built up a lot of muscle but holy _fuck_. And then Phil had the actual audacity to frown down at him in concern. “You’re really light” he commented, startling a laugh out of Wilbur.

“Fuck off” he managed, before Phil’s wings unfurled and they shot up.

Wilbur isn’t the proudest of the noise he makes when they do so. He’s pretty sure he swallowed a bug at some point. But then he actually gets to look around him.

British countryside, all lush green fields dotted with flowers and much lay below them. And around them, just air. Nothing below his feet and only clouds above his head. 

The air was colder up here too, barely noticeable since they didn’t fly too high, but still noticeable. Wilbur watched it fog up in front of him before he threw up his hands, screaming “yes!” As loud as he could.

The motion almost made Phil drop him, but instead he turned it into a dive that had Wilbur laughing hysterically, the air getting pulled out of his chest as Phil flared his wings, slowing their descent.

Phil gave a couple more flaps before they both stumbled back to solid land, which felt disappointingly boring after that.

That didn’t stop Wilbur from all but collapsing from joy upon landing, spinning around to lay on his back and stare up at the sky. The sky he had been in. 

_Holy shit._

\----

  
  


“That” Wilbur announced deliriously afterward, sprawled out on the grass with his head in Phil’s lap and a vaguely absent smile on his face “was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Then he craned his neck up to Phil, who was half watching in amusement and half outright hovering, wings half cradled around Wilbur. “Can we do that again sometime?”

Phil laughed. “Yeah, anytime you want.”

“Now.”

“. .. Okay maybe not anytime. You’re acting like you’re high.”

“High on life Phil” Wilbur broke out into giggles, before shutting his eyes.

“When Tommy’s trained well enough, he can probably do it as well” Phil offered, and Wilbur’s eyes shot open, absolutely delighted.

“You mean I can turn the child into my own personal taxi service?” He asked, beaming. “You are giving me permission to do that?”

“What? No- I said-”

Whatever Phil said was drowned out by Wilbur’s cackles.

* * *

Tommy knocks on his bedroom door the next morning, and Wilbur knows this is gonna be good.

The teen was shifting, foot to foot, face red in a way that made Wilbur genuinely worried for him for a moment.

Then Tommy just blurted “this is for you!” And all but bolted to the other side of the house. 

It was a necklace, a simple chain. With a golden brown feather attached. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments guys! You have no idea how much it means to me, seriously. You guys give me the faintest of praise and I am just validashun???? for me????? wilde?????
> 
> Come scream with me on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/serendipitous-posts


	5. On break

So sorry guys, but school is restarting again and that means ill be on a break for a while. Can I request all prompts be paused just for a while?


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